


Freckles and Broth

by gnimaerd



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimaerd/pseuds/gnimaerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>youwillfindilluminating  requested some hurt/comfort fic with Kili taking care of Tauriel for once, so I’ve obliged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freckles and Broth

 

 

 

Tauriel is never so bad tempered as when she is reliant on someone else for her care – and when that other individual is a small, hairy and inappropriately cheerful dwarf it only worsens her mood.

Unfortunately for her, Kili finds her temper rather attractive.

“Up, up, dear invalid,” he kneels at her bedside, “Bofur has made you some broth, and you cannot eat it lying down.”

Tauriel groans, turning her back on him. “Leave me be.”

“No,” he prods her, “come on, captain. Sit up.”

She glances back at him, eyes narrowed – Kili greets her with a grin.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re starving, you haven’t eaten all day,” Kili proffers the broth, “look, it’s good, it’s got barley and onions and beans and all sorts. It’ll keep your strength up.”

Tauriel’s expression remains doubtful. Kili gives her another gentle prod. “I’m generally given to understand that though an elf may not die of their wounds as easily as a mortal, they can still starve to death. And certainly not eating cannot be helping you heal any faster.”

Tauriel heaves a sigh, rolling back onto her other side to face him. “If I eat, do you give me your word that you will leave me to sleep afterward?”

“I swear it on my honour,” Kili holds up a hand, and Tauriel smirks.

“Swear it on something more tangible than that.”

“Hey!” He narrows his eyes at her. “Alright – fine – I swear it on my bow.”

This she accepts, and he puts down the broth so that he can help her sit upright.

The process is a necessarily slow one – Tauriel’s arms are badly burned and there are deep wounds in her abdomen which she cannot risk disturbing. Being snatched up by a dragon and having to hack one’s way free by cutting off a few of the creature’s toes will do that to even the most robust of warriors.

Tauriel is now in the unenviable position of needing to regrow almost all the flesh from her fingertips to her elbows on both arms, where she was burned almost to the bone by the dragon’s blood. Although the deep holes rent by Smaug in her belly were the thing that came closest to killing her (Kili now tries not to think about having to hold her skin closed to keep her intestines from spilling out), it is the burns that are now the greatest risk to her life.

Elves do not take infections easily but, as Oin pronounced when first inspecting them, such burns as these would have killed almost anyone else – they must be treated with the utmost care if they are not to carry Tauriel away – especially if the elf is ever to regain full use of her arms. And whilst Legolas flies back to Mirkwood to retrieve healers of his own kind, that care falls to the dwarves and to Bard, in whose house they remain, for lack of a better base of operations. Tauriel cannot be moved and they are all recovering from the battle with Smaug, waiting to see if the dragon, now minus several of his toes and driven back to the Misty Mountain, will return.

Meanwhile, Tauriel’s burns are terrible and extensive and must be bathed and dressed every few hours to keep them clean. The process is excruciatingly painful and when not enduring that, the elf spends most of her time pretending to be asleep so that no one will bother her. She is exhausted by the pain and bad tempered at the indignity of it all.

There is nothing so wretched for a warrior as being deprived as the use of their hands, and there is nothing so wretched for an elf as indignity. Two days ago, she could pick up a bow and slay three orcs at a single strike – now she cannot even feed herself.

Fortunately, Kili has a high tolerance for foul tempers, having grown up with Thorin as an uncle, and, mindful of her own actions in saving his life only a week before, he takes upon himself the bulk of her care.

When he has suitably arranged her against her pillows, he seats himself on the edge of her bed, being careful to avoid her bandage-swathed arms, and offers her a spoonful of broth, which she accepts with a look of silent resentment, her wrapped fingers twitching. There is a hard line of tension down her jaw, her shoulders stiff as rock – the only sign she ever gives of being in pain, although Kili has learned to spot, too, a slight shudder that goes from her throat to her ears when the dressings are taken off her arms.

He eyes her thoughtfully, as he stirs the broth, fishing for the most appetising bits, “I didn’t know elves could have freckles.”

She gives him a look. “I do not have freckles.”

“Yes you,” he taps her nose with a finger, “there’s one, and there’s one there, and another – ”

She bats him off, her mouth twisting gently, exasperatedly amused.

 Kili quirks his head. “Are they not considered desirable, amongst your kind?”

Tauriel shrugs, opening her mouth expectantly – Kili offers her another spoonful, waits as she chews and swallows, then persists. “Amongst my folk, they’re good – sign of a lass who goes seeking the sun. I like them on you – they’re pretty .”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“Yes,” Kili prods her, “I’m a dwarf of excellent taste, I’ll have you know.”

Tauriel manages a faint gasp of laughter, then clutches her belly, grimacing. “Don’t – it hurts when I laugh.”

“Sorry. Don’t see what’s so funny about stating my fine taste, though,” he adds, cocking a brow at her until she smiles, “I’m a dwarf of the world, I have travelled and seen many things – unlike a certain captain of the elven guard I might mention. I should know a fine thing when I see it.”

“Are you saying I should not?” Tauriel enquires, as he offers her the spoon again.

“Well…” Kili considers, “only that perhaps that you should trust me when I say that freckles are a fine thing, and do your nose great justice.”

Tauriel shakes her head, but she has visibly relaxed, her jaw no longer quite so tight, her shoulders easing. She eats the rest of the broth without protest, and later, when her dressings require changing again, she lets Kili sit by her head and talk nonsense whilst she hisses curses in Sindarin.

Kili helps Oin smear a cool, glue-like substance into her wounds, taking care around the joins of each of her fingers, far too aware of how much an archer values the use of a bow hand.

“Thank you,” Tauriel murmurs, when he’s finished. She is carefully flexing the muscles, coaxing blood flow back to the worst areas – though still a gory sight her burns already look a might better than they did the day before. Elves truly do heal quickly, and the better for good spirits and warm food, Kili thinks.

“A favour returned,” he shrugs, and she smiles.

 


End file.
